The Witch of Tin Mountain(36)

“Steady, Morris,” I say, trying to soothe him. “You’ll be all right, hear? Hold real still.” I prod again, closing my eyes to concentrate. Morris howls. “You’ve got two broken ribs. You’re lucky, though. One’s broke so bad it could’ve punctured your lung. It’s gonna be real sore. You’ll need to lay up as long as you can, but you gotta remember to breathe deep now and then, even though it’ll hurt like hell. Otherwise, the pneumonia’ll set in. Caro, go get a sheet from the clothesline and tear it into strips. We need to wrap him up tight, put that arm in a sling to keep them ribs in place.”

“Jus’ do what you need to do, Gracie,” Morris gasps. “And hurry.”

After we’ve got him all bandaged up and tucked into my and Caro’s bed, I can see Ebba stirring in the yellow morning light on the porch. I go out to tell her what’s happened. She sits in the rocking chair next to Granny’s daybed and buries her face in her hands, muttering in Swedish. Granny sleeps on, her jaw slack, her lips dry and chapped around the edges.

“Deirdre knew this would happen,” Ebba says with a sigh. “She tried to talk sense into Rebon when he first started building that still years ago.”

“You know how Rebon was. Morris is a Doherty, too, Ebba. He does what he wants and damn the consequences.”

“You’re the same way, Gracelynn.” Ebba smiles wryly. “We should go to town. Tell the sheriff.”

I stiffen beside her. “We should, but Sheriff Murphy won’t do anything. We ain’t gonna say nothin’, Ebba. You and me both know who did this, and why we best lay low.”

“Northrups.”

“Yup. They’ll kill Morris just like they killed Rebon. And we gotta protect Seth, too. It’s best for everybody involved if we let Morris heal up and just stay quiet.”

Ebba clenches her fists. “Ain’t right how Al Northrup runs this town. Back when I was a girl, Bill Bledsoe—”

“Was high and mighty but stayed out of hill people’s business. I know.”

“Trouble’s all around us, Gracie,” Ebba says. “Just like fifty years ago. And more trouble’s on the way.”



The sun gives one last defiant blaze before folding into the darkness of the hillside. Abby just stands there, arms draped over the lighthouse railing, staring down at the trees. She’s sullen and quiet, like the tar’s been whipped out of her. The beacon whooshes overhead, the whup-whup of the lantern motor the only sound between us.

This is the first chance I’ve had to get away. Three days have passed since Morris got jumped. Hot, rainless days spent changing his bandages, watching over Granny, and building up our store of ointments and tinctures, even though the demand for our cures dwindled with Bellflower’s arrival, just like I was afraid it would.

“Morris got jumped the other night,” I say. “Harlan’s doing, no doubt. Busted two of his ribs and knocked his nose out of joint.”

“You sure it was Harlan?”

“Who else would it be, Abby? I’m real worried. Things are goin’ sour in as many ways as they can. Val’s taken up with that new preacher, and I ain’t seen her in days. Doc Gallagher’s been checking up on Granny—giving her fluids—but she’s still sick and showing no signs of getting better.”

“Your granny will pull through. She’s too stubborn not to.” Abby grins at me, but it’s a nervous grin that doesn’t reach her eyes. Her curls fall like a dark veil over her face. She clears her throat. “Pa’s worse. He’s hockin’ up blood now.”

“I’m sure sorry.” I want to reach for her hand, but something stops me. I rake in a breath, and my stomach tumbles. Troubles everywhere. Troubles all around. And this heat, thick and heavy as a wool coat, driving all sense away and making folks mean. Fights are breaking out all over town, and Sheriff Murphy’s jail’s already full-up.

It’s the curse. It has to be.

Earlier, after I’d fed and tucked Caro in and after Ebba fell asleep, I went up to the loft to study the grimoire. I’ve learned a lot already. I skipped the recipes I’ve learned at Granny’s feet, and I’m reading Anneliese’s journal entries instead. Her death seems to be at the root of the darkness that still haunts Tin Mountain. She and the townsfolk had mostly lived in accord until Nathaniel Walker showed up.

Why is it that most of a woman’s troubles in life have to do with a man? I wonder about my mama a lot—just how much better her life would have been if she’d never met Shep Doherty.

I can’t help but worry about Val. It seems she’s the one Bellflower is after, and she’s falling right into his trap, just like Anneliese did with Nathaniel. She’s been taken in by his glamour. His pretty lies. A woman past her prime with fading looks makes for an easy mark, after all. She’s always been vain, and a man like Bellflower could exploit that for his own gain.

Abby flicks her cigarette butt over the edge of the lighthouse balcony and fixes me with a stone-faced glare. “I seen somethin’ last night, Gracie.”

“What?” I whisper.

“I ain’t sure what I’d call it. A haint, maybe? I’d just gotten Hortense in the barn for the night, and heard a sound like heavy footsteps, comin’ from the holler. I looked down and I saw a flickering light through the trees. At first, I thought it was just a hobo camp. That’s when the screaming started. Next thing I knew, somebody took off up the hill. Looked like they were lit on fire. But it weren’t like no fire I’d ever seen—the flames were all blue and cold. It ran plumb up to the old Sutter cemetery, shrieking, and then just . . . disappeared. Things got real quiet after that. Even the damned cicadas quit their racket.” Abby lights another cigarette, her hands shaking. “It took a long time for me to calm down. Reckon I ain’t calm yet.”